Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAVM720YCN15QRTRDQHSXH

Warm cinnamon curled through the bakery’s gingham-draped windows, flour dust coating the edge of the marble counter where a half-rolled batch of spiced sugar cookies sat abandoned. The bell above the door tinkled, faint enough not to jolt the huddled silhouette by the pastry case, where a jar of dented cookie cutters gaped empty in its usual spot. Did you check the back pantry’s top shelf? You stashed the peppermint cutters there last Christmas after the tree lighting fiasco when the mayor knocked over the display. The star cutter’s not with them. It’s the one my grandmother used for the annual town cookie contest—judges are here at noon, and I can’t enter without it. Noticed Mrs. Hale lingering by the prep table yesterday. She kept glancing at the cutter jar when you stepped out to grab organic milk from the corner market. Her grandkid’s entering this year. Could she have swiped it to gain an edge? Found a crumpled peppermint wrapper by the back door. Yours don’t have that foil—hers do, from the general store’s bulk bin. Should I confront her right now? Wait till after we bake a backup batch. Let’s grab the snowflake cutters—judges love nostalgia too, and we can hint about the wrapper later to nudge her into returning it quietly. The silhouette reached for a bag of powdered sugar, flour dusting their sleeve as they nudged the cookie dough toward the rolling pin.